Monday, January 03, 2005

Play that funky music White Boy

As I watched the demise 0f 2004 and the birth of the New Year on the past Friday night, I ,like everyone else thought of the past and the coming year. As the city of New york was celebrating the event from Times Square for the 100th year in a row, Dick Clark was missing the event for the first time in a century. His replacement was that wimpy little Regis Philbin. What venue does not have that monkey face of his staring out at you? I could put up with Richard Simmons as well as Regis, but that's another story. While most Americans think of resolutions and grow introspective about losing weight, getting out of debt, or growing healthier, I think of the past and peruse some of the paths that I've taken that maybe might not have been the better of the selections offered. You know like Robert Frost's poem.When I was a child growing up in Lincoln County we virtually lived and played along a little creek that is a tributary of Green River. Green River has its humble beginnings not far from my boyhood home as a little spring in the community of appropriately enough, Green River. As we played, hunted, and fought along, and in the creek we always knew that in the fall the dreaded "Dog Days" would appear. This was the dry season and the little creek would evaporate to muddy little pools, and then into foul smelling troughs where all the fish and aquatic life would die.My grandmother always cautioned us that cuts and scrapes would not heal during dog days and tried in vain to keep us from capturing the normally elusive fish as they floundered around in the foul muddy pools. As with all seasons we realized with the coming of late fall and early winter good clean rain would revitalize our creek and once again the sparkling waters would sweetly flow , and we would see the flashing bodies of the minnows and sunfish as they teased us with their underwater freedom. We never did figure out where mother nature replenished the fish from , but the important fact was their reassuring existence. I bring all of this past experience up because I have come to realize that in my own personal life my creeks have gone dry. I have worked at the same job for nearly 27 years, I've lived in the same house for 32 years, and I've been married to the same woman for over three decades. Everything I own or have bought in those past years has been old and worn out by previous owners. My principle address was roughly built in 1869 and every year shows. I think I suffer from Adult Deficit Disorder, and I'm definitely past middle age crazy as I don't have the money for younger women or sports cars. I've come to believe that men my age look dorky as they cruise around in little two seater convertibles, their bald spots shining or dyed hair ablaze in the sunlight. I've gotten too stiff in my knees to even crawl up out of a roadster.People come up to Sandy and give her condolences as they meet her for the very first time. My wife even led me out of a Christmas party a couple of weeks ago on the weak pretense that I was heckling and baiting some of the other revelers at the event. Heck, I just thought I was adding to the social scene. Sandy didn't tell me about her holiday company party until a week after it was over.I had been reading quotes and reviewing proper etiquette in hopes of redeeming myself from my earlier faux pas, but that was not to be. I admit that I do say some minor things to THE OLD GIRLS, i.e. Sandy's friends, but sometimes I don't think they are as mad or embarrassed as they act. I have to say that part of my problems started in college as the women were of the Hippy persuasion and thought that my cynical ways and sarcasm were ok. In hindsight maybe they were a little drunk or under the influence of marijuana ,but none the less I didn't have the degree of controversy with women as I have now. I think most of my attraction from females died about the time that Jerry Garcia checked out. By now any one can tell that I'm quite a piece of work. Unlike the Dog Days of mother earth , I see no winter rains in my own existence. My creeks have dried up and all of my pools are filled with ragged looking carp as they they float around in slimy green algae. I don't see any rain clouds on the distant horizon so I think those old carp have some rough days ahead. The hippy girls have all grown up and only fly Southwest to San Francisco, and they never,never ,ever wear flowers in their hair. Sandy detests Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and likes The Irish Tenors. What can I say ? She's the only element in my life that's not old and worn out, and she has put up with more than a few antics in life from me.The only thing to say is "Play that funky music , White Boy".

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